The building itself appears ridiculously slender, if surprisingly tall, but the Impresario Guilfo is well-enough acquainted with the similarly constructed premises on this lane to know that hallways stretch back, that interior doors open up on to nothing but spiral stairways that can lead down or up, bringing you out into vast rooms filled with the most amazing equipment.
It is rumoured amongst regular visitors to these interior mazes that still other doors lead to corridors that weave beneath or even through other buildings, linking the shops to the grand mansions that the lane’s shopkeepers can now easily afford.
The Impresario Guilfo knows of no shopkeepers – even from the Lane Without Name – living amongst the elegant mansions he frequents; but then again, who’s to say they don’t wear one of Seneore’s many remarkable masks when he comes visiting here?
He’s wearing one, after all.
He appears today to be a somewhat younger man than he – unfortunately – actually is; though, alas, it is not as young as he would have preferred, for although a mask can transform the face, an overweight, unexercised body such as his is so much harder to disguise.
Not that his excess of weight has ever caused him any real, insurmountable problems. Rather, it is a sign of his success.
He had drawn his own ideas of morality, of all standards of behaviour in all areas of life, from the plays he produced: and yes, naturally, they always had a joyful resolution, where virtue was rewarded, vice punished. Yet anyone with even a berry for a brain couldn't fail to see that these endings were merely artistic creations, with no real bearing on reality – and all purely because the foolish masses demand that it were so, to make an excuse for their lack of achievements, to praise their own virtues, while sneering at the vices of the wealthy.
Therefore, he had made his whole life, in effect, a theatrical event; one in which he was the major player, the one whom everyone else has to revolve around to ensure he comes across as hero, as master, as the successful man.
Which, indeed, he was in every way.
There’s no knocker on the door to Master Caputo’s, no bell cord to pull; as with all the other establishments on this lane, anyone here for business simply turns the handle and enters.
Inside, just as the Impresario Guilfo expected, it’s incredibly dark, the air damp and smelling of mould. It’s the first of what will probably be many narrow corridors, leading him to wherever Master Caputo conducts his business.
Set within recesses carved into the walls, the flames of lanterns or candles light the way. Here, as at Mr Gillars, the otherwise dim illumination sparkles with a rich variety of colours, the flames set behind bottles of potions that themselves glitter a rich green, sapphire blue, sunflower yellow, or blood red.
Even the bottle shapes are somewhat similar, mainly of the stoppered variety, yet nevertheless coming in a wide range of styles, glass or ceramic work that is in its own right a glorious piece of sculpture. Their beauty is embellished with carefully draped flowers and fruits, the very source of their potency (for it is Nature herself who grants us the oils and essences that can help bring either love or death into our lives). The blooms appear fresh, alive; yet they too are no doubt simply preserved in the most deliciously perfect state of death.
There are helpful captions describing the particular efficaciousness of each potion: the pain it will cause, the speed of its actions, the natural death it could be said to emulate.
There is also the matter of how detectable its traces are to an accomplished cadaverist, some cities being naturally more suspicious of the sudden death of someone rich and famous.
Every now and again – and once again as at Mr Gillars – there are displays featuring the means of administering the potions, including rings with hidden prongs, or necklaces that simply gradually emanate a substance that will be absorbed by the skin. The captions here inform the potential purchaser of the likelihood of unwanted contamination, the chances that an innocent may unfortunately ingest the potion by mistake.
Despite the exquisite arrangement of these displays, the Impresario Guilfo has heard from a number of his associates (who have naturally heard it from a number of their own associates) that the corridors of the young inventor Forisimo put such exhibits to shame: for his establishment is lit with flames that dance as if alive. Of course, Guilfo dismisses such descriptions as nothing more than mere fancies; he, of all people, should be aware of the boy’s undoubted capabilities – but he also has first hand knowledge of Forisimo’s talent for theatrically dressing up the relatively mundane as pieces of magic.
The corridor at Mr Gillars is nowhere near as long as that at Master Caputo’s establishment; neither does it seem to wind so incredibly serpent-like into the bowels of the earth.
It gives the Impresario Guilfo plenty of time to recall the many reasons why he seeks Forisimo’s death.
*
Chapter 3
Despite Forisimo’s unnaturally rapid turning of the carousel, Cauda was now dancing so smoothly, so instinctively, that the flickering images being cast upon a scene of a Japanese garden could no longer keep pace with her.
She didn’t need them any longer; the images were already in her mind, in her every motion and move.
She wasn’t even aware that the dancing images had briefly come to a halt, a fluttering finish, as Forisimo replaced the large carousel with another one.
It wasn’t an unusual occurrence: Forisimo had regularly changed the carousels – just as he frequently changed the cylinders on his musical box – as an increasingly accomplished Cauda had found the earlier dance moves unchallenging. So even when she realised that her flickering companion had vanished, she wasn’t in any way surprised or disturbed.
She continued with her fluidly elegant moves, wondering what Forisimo would be expecting of her next.
Another dancer leapt onto the backcloth, this time a man who moved through a number of rapid twirls, a high leap, a landing that flowed into yet another graceful spin on his toes.
For once, Cauda was shocked by the change to the images, even a little dismayed.
‘Forisimo! It’s a man! I can’t be expected to dance like a man!’
‘No, not like!’ Forisimo cried back gleefully, delighted by Cauda’s poor attempt at an irritated expression. ‘With! You must dance with him!’
‘But the practice–’
‘Enough practice! You know it all off by heart now; I can see that, even if you can’t! Now dance with him!’
Cuada grinned shyly, charmed if not persuaded by Forisimo’s flattery. She turned to watch the man flitting amongst the jasmine and blossom of the garden, following his moves closely, seeing when it would be best for her to join in.
At first, it was a rendition of one of the dances she had learnt, by ever so studiously copying every pose, every flow of movement. But gradually, as she let the flow of the music take her, she began to expand on the moves, to experiment with new shapes and positions.
And then it was, at last, the emotion that took her: and she swirled with the wraithlike man, such that they became as two spirits, the spirits of love, of joy.
Forisimo watched, bewitched; oh, how he wished he could be that man – even if his own life were as similarly fleeting and brief.
*
‘Good evening, Impresario,’ the man politely intoned as Guilfo at last stepped through an open door that led into a large and brightly illuminated room rather than yet another corridor.
It could be an alchemist’s laboratory, Guilfo thought, one designed for no other purpose than to transform lead into gold.
And yet Master Caputo’s formulae, of course, turned gold into lead; the living into the dead.
It was pure theatricality; Guilfo recognised this instantly, of course.
There was nothing about this room that really struck him as being synonymous with a workplace. Just as he dressed his stage to create a mood, utilising a semblance of a scene that drew more on his audiences’ expectations rathe
r than reality, this room had been carefully structured to grant Master Caputo an air of authority, of esoteric knowledge and, perhaps, implied membership of a secret illuminati.
Master Caputo himself was similarly dressed to add to this show of arcane gravitas, his garb more that of some Florentine artist that any manufacturer or businessman – a clear statement that he believed his work was an art, one that few people really understood or appreciated.
He rose from where he had been seated behind a heavy oak table, approaching Guilfo with the customary polite bow of the head, the airy wave of an obviously empty right hand.
Guilfo returned the gesture and the greeting, forgoing any query has to how the master was aware of his name; it was well known, after all, that the shopkeepers of the Lane Without Name had informants strewn throughout the city, that they tended to work together as one wherever possible, their strength lying in their union of purpose to defend each other from any enemies. They had common cause; they all regarded themselves as lying outside the boundaries of any normal authority, existing in a world that lay beyond both its strictures and its usually inadequate protection.
That, of course, was what made Forisimo such a difficult target for Guilfo to take his vengeance out on. (That and the fact that, were Forisimo to suddenly turn up dead without any obviously natural explanation, Cauda would soon begin to suspect that it was just one more strange disappearance in which the impresario seemed to be involved.)
Indeed, Guilfo realised, he would not be able to inform Master Caputo of the identity of his intended victim, for he would not only be met with a firm refusal but might also find himself on a list of those deemed a danger to the wellbeing of the purveyors of especially advantageous goods.
‘Who is it whom you wish to be delivered from, so that your own life–’
‘That is no concern of yours,’ Guilfo snapped, rudely interrupting Caputo’s politely delivered request for information. ‘I just need one of your poisons emulating a natura–’
‘Then regretfully I cannot help you,’ Caputo responded calmly, now using a wave of his hand to direct the impresario back towards the door that had silently closed behind him.
‘What?’
Guilfo was outraged; he had never been spoken to in this offhand manner before, not even by the other merchants of the lane.
‘What has the identity of my intended victim to do with you?’ he demanded furiously.
‘Everything!’ Master Caputo assured him. ‘If we are to ensure there’s no detection of the use of my wares, then I must also work in an advisory capacity; I take into account the lifestyle of the person, his habits – if, indeed, it is a he! – his manners, his weaknesses and strengths.’
Guilfo shook his head dismissively.
‘I know him well; I can give you more than enough–’
‘I must observe the person myself; otherwise, it is not only that success cannot be assured, but also that attention might be drawn to either – or maybe even both – of us! My potions are not something that can be simply administered on a foolishly ill-considered whim–’
‘There is nothing ill-considered about my motivation–’
‘I’m well aware of the results of your previous motivations, Impresario Guilfo! Your attitude to conducting certain business transactions has become infamous, to the level were soon no one will be willing to enter negotiations with you!’
Guilfo’s instinct was to angrily refute such a scandalous accusation; but he stopped himself, realising that Master Caputo would only regard him as a fool for refusing to accept what was, after all, an accurate analysis of the situation.
Guilfo, of course, was far from being a fool.
He saw that the best course of action here was to admit that Caputo was right, to turn that admittance to his own advantage.
‘That’s why I’m seeking an alternative,’ he said, ‘one less obvious, shall we say, than my usual methods? And as you’re aware of my reputation, then you must also recognise that I can bring substantial business opportunities your way…’
‘I’m in no need of your patronage,’ Master Caputo casually replied. ‘But tell me,’ he added with an equal coolness, ‘your usual methods must necessitate that the obstacle to your continuing success is identified in some way, yes?’
Guilfo regarded Caputo’s stony face suspiciously, blanking his own expression to hide his frustration; he was accustomed to assiduously catching the tell-tale signs that told him he was being played, but the eyes of a sculpture would be easier to read than those of Master Caputo.
Caputo’s face was a mask; one of Seneore’s finest, without a shadow of a doubt.
But what would be the point of Seneore’s remarkable masks if you could spot one because a wearer remained expressionless? They were made of the finest gossamer, rumoured to be some form of the delicate skin of calf or maybe even kitten intestines; and so the wearer’s smile was a smile on his new identity, a grimace was a grimace, and so on. Unlike inferior masks, Seneore’s didn’t suffer the noticeable flaw of flawless skin; they were real, suffering the irregularities and imperfections of any normal face.
And yet, on Master Caputo, there were no giveaway expressions; those expressions of barely controlled intense emotions, when even Seneore’s masks would – albeit almost inconspicuously – reveal fault lines around the delicate skin of the eyes.
Either he’d had an ultra special mask devised for his use alone, or he’d developed a control of his emotions that put to shame even the most professional of card players.
‘In this particular case, no; I wouldn’t wish to inform anyone of the intended’s identity,’ Guilfo said in answer to Caputo’s query. ‘That is why I sought out you: seeking a means to rid myself of this obstacle to my wellbeing without having to name him.’
‘Him? Ahhh!’ Caputo exclaimed, as if this simple slip of Guilfo’s had revealed far more than the latter had either intended or expected.
At last, Caputo’s face lit up with an expression recognisable to Guilfo: one of understanding, of abrupt revelation.
‘You don’t wish anyone – not even the victim himself – to know he has bested you in some way that has forced you into removing him; so that would not be business – that would be love!’
‘Love? Hah! What need have I for love?’ Guilfo kept his expression stern, a means of once again hiding his true feelings. ‘Even the prettiest of women can be mine on the promise of making her famous!’
‘No doubt, no doubt, indeed; and I’m sure that under more normal circumstances you don’t mind such women taking a younger lover on the side, as long as they reserve a more certain kind of affection for you? And yet here you are: and a rival, a man, is involved? May I suggest that you try Mr Gillars’ establish–’
‘Are you intending to sorely try me, Master Caputo?’ Guilfo growled irritably.
This Caputo certainly knew the strings to pull to aggravate his ill temper; there was hardly anything worse for Guilfo than to know someone was reading him as easily as if he were an open book, particularly when it was a matter that left him feeling so uncharacteristically powerless – love was such a dreadful thing, the way it stripped away the carefully cultivated defences of even the most influential of men.
Once again, however, Guilfo was wise enough to recognise that this was one of those rare occasions when honesty would pay the richest dividends.
He even hung his head a little, a sign of the dismay he felt that he had been brought so low.
‘What use is the false love of a love potion!’ he snarled miserably. ‘And besides, these potions of Gillars’; she seems immune to them! All down, I think, to the real love she feels for him!’
‘Good, good! Now we’re getting somewhere!’ Caputo said. ‘You’d be surprised, Impresario Guilfo, how many of my patrons have come to the same conclusion that you have; that if my rival is removed, she will naturally seek a shoulder to cry upon – and that shoulder, of course, will be mine!’
No wonder
this Master Caputo had found him so easy to read, Guilfo silently fumed; this manufacturer of poisons had obviously come across a great many other otherwise rich and powerful men who had also found themselves in such a ridiculously humiliating position.
‘I fail to see how there can be any progress in our conversation,’ Guilfo scowled, ‘if you insist on my naming of the man who daily tortures me with his simple existence!’
He frowned miserably.
‘Besides,’ he added, as if it were a casual afterthought, even though he had already given the matter a great deal of consideration, ‘he’s no doubt rich enough himself now to hide behind one of Seneore’s masks! I could pass him in the street and fail to recognise him: and so how can you eradicate a man who makes sure he’s hardly ever the same person more than twice?’
Of course, Guilfo had no proof of this assertion; but he suspected that it must be true for – despite the many guards the impresario had secretly posted around Cauda – it would be impossible to waylay every admirer wishing to pay their respects to the city’s most famed and gloriously entrancing dancer; and therefore all Forisimo had to do to slip through Guilfo’s cordon was to take on the semblance of a rich and influential patron.
‘It would, of course, be quite delicious to me if it were Cauda herself who unwittingly delivered the means to his removal from her life.’
‘If you must insist on refusing to name him for the moment,’ Caputo declared helpfully, ‘then may I at least know of the girl who has so unfairly placed you in this dilemma?’
‘You will have undoubtedly heard of her: it is the dancer, Cauda!’ Guilfo murmured resignedly.
Caputo chuckled richly, but thankfully had the good sense to explain the reason behind his laughter before Guilfo exploded with rage.
‘Then no wonder you can’t name the victim; for you’re obviously demanding that I poison at least half of our city! Although I’ve never witnessed any of her performances, I’ve naturally heard that she’s loved by so many!’
‘But she loves only one,’ Guilfo pointed out, adding with all the hard tones of an accusation, ‘As for the others, well: as you have never visited my theatre, Caputo, then you cannot be expected to understand her remarkable ability to capture anyone’s heart.’